


blur into you

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (because I can never leave out the angst), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Pining, Strangers to Lovers, Sugar Daddy Napoleon Solo, Sugar baby Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: >>Home tonight.No signature, just two words from an unknown number, and they still set your heart aflutter. The word sugarbaby has never been said as such, and there are rules you suspect are not exactly standard. It suits you fine. Mostly fine. You don't need to splash the lavish lifestyle you have all across the internet, and the money he makes available to you is spent on experiences much more so than material things, and the things you do buy… well, they are for him to enjoy. But sometimes… Sometimes your mind wanders and makes you wish that the end lurking at the horizon won't ever come.
Relationships: Napoleon Solo & Reader, Napoleon Solo/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	blur into you

I: You Like Me Because I Am a Scoundrel

You wake up to rain, a soft sound that brings you gently out of sleep. The window just beyond the headboard that you cracked open last night to let in fresh air has been pushed even further ajar by nocturnal winds, and the air feels chilly, refreshed. The heatwave has persisted for weeks, and you have barely done more than dragged yourself out of bed most days. The city below you would usually be crawling with life, chatter reaching up to you high above the streets on particularly busy day, but just like you, the entire city seems to have slowed down, come to a halt from the sweltering heat, reserving energy that the ever climbing temperatures would otherwise siphon out of you, out of everyone.

Now, there is a sense of alertness, the cool air breathing new life into you, and the soothing sound of the rain against the tin roof makes you smile, makes you think about slippery cobblestone streets and the bakery tucked into a narrow alleyway, the worn sweater tucked into the dresser and a steaming mug of tea.

As far as your friends and family know, you are on sabbatical, spending a year travelling around Europe. Stress was threatening to tear you apart, and the break from your life was needed. After years of saving up, you had enough to sustain you through a year of travel. It wouldn't be a luxury trip, but it didn't matter. It was an adventure, a life on your terms.

God, the idealism.

_ Two weeks into your stay in Paris you had fallen victim to the city's notorious pickpocketers, a torrential rain had started on your traverse from the metro station to the cheap hotel that would be a guaranteed roof over your head for only another night. Your plan had been to switch to another part of the city, but with no funds, your credit card cancelled and no plan, it had seemed like the misery you had left behind had somehow found you again. _

_ It was maybe a little cliché, and you certainly laugh at it now, but right then, when you had thought your adventure  _ _ – _ _ hell, your life  _ _ – _ _ was over and sobs started tripping from you, out of nowhere an umbrella had been stretched over you, shielding you from the downpour and magical words had been spoken. _

_ "Seems like you might need a hand, miss." _

_ Without a second thought, you followed him. To a little bistro where he bought you lunch, offered you his suit jacket to keep you warm. To his bed, frantically kissing him, nails digging into his back as he worked you from orgasm to orgasm. _

A steaming mug of tea in your hand, you look out at the city again. What a far cry this is from cheap motels and budget airlines. It's been nearly six months, and though most of them have been spent here, you have seen the beauty of Venice, the history of Berlin, the snowcapped mountains of the Alps. All because of the man with the umbrella. Next to you, your phone pings.

_ >>Home tonight. _

No signature, just two words from an unknown number, and they still set your heart aflutter. You delete the message, smiling as you take another sip, content in as you lounge in the messy bed in an expensive penthouse apartment high above the streets of a magnificent European metropolis. He's coming home. Napoleon's coming home to you tonight.

You're honestly not sure if Napoleon Solo is his real name. Some of his passports say it is. Others carry different names, different nationalities. You do know he is a spy, engaged with an agency he won't tell you the name of. He wanted to be upfront as he offered you an escape route back in his bed in Paris, a way to divert from the road that would only lead you back to misery. He is a spy, and his offer was not without risk. He would be gone for days, weeks, maybe longer, there was always the risk that he would not come home. But, he could offer you a comfortable stay for as long as you wanted, a safe place to stay, money to spend, anything you needed, anything you wanted. Naturally, you asked what he asked for in return.

_ "Companionship, mostly. Someone to come back to. Anything else is on the table on your conditions. If you want there to be… more if this…" He'd turned on his side, dragging his finger lightly along your waist and hips, lips curled into a crooked grin that had had your stomach doing somersaults. "I certainly won't say no. And I'll be as generous in bed as in anything else. As you've seen." _

The word sugarbaby has never been said as such, and there are rules you suspect are not exactly standard. He calls them safety precautions, sometimes frowns at you when you take a silly selfie of the two of you in bed. You know you can't keep it, can't keep any of them. You look at them and immediately delete them. No photos together. No photos of the apartment, or anywhere near. No geographical tags when you upload something to your social media accounts, nothing that would seem out of the ordinary for what the world thinks you're doing. It suits you fine. Mostly fine. You don't need to splash the lavish lifestyle you have all across the internet, and the money he makes available to you is spent on experiences much more so than material things, and the things you do buy… well, they are for him to enjoy. But sometimes… 

Sometimes you wish there was something. A picture to hold on to, proof of this extraordinary man that saw you break down on a street in Paris and offered to help out, who will cook you dinner and insist you try the most decadent sweets at a bakery, who satisfies you again and again and again before seeing to his own pleasure. Time is slipping away from you, ticking away in minutes, days and months, and you try to hoard the moments you have with him before it comes to an end.

It's an impatient wait for him.  _ Home tonight _ does not give you much in terms of an ETA. The excitement in you grows as you make a trip downtown to restock for his arrival. Produce and freshly baked bread for dinner, breakfast, lunch, whatever he wants to make when the urge hits him. Chocolate from the chocolatier across the city, an indulgent treat for the both you. You pass by a boutique that has earned your patronage since you arrived with Napoleon, and you bite your lip before you duck inside, reemerging some time later with a small bag, silk paper peeking from the top. Another indulgence. For him.

There's no clock in the apartment. No use, he'd once said, it would only run out of batteries. There's nothing to mark the time, and yet you feel every second that passes. You tidy the apartment, unnecessarily so, picking among your things, refolding clothes. You take a shower, trying to tell yourself to enjoy the moment, to revel in the warm water, the fragrant body wash, the time to pamper yourself. You change into your purchase, trace fingers over silk and delicate lace before covering up in the dusty blue robe that was your first purchase with his money back in Paris.

When he finally walks in through the door, you nearly tackle him back out of it, slinging your arms around him and breathing him in, listening to the steady beat of his heart as you press against him. He is solid against you, warm and safe in the way his hand comes to splay over your back, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb.

"Someone miss me?"

You don’t realize how much you’ve missed his voice until he speaks, the mere sound of him like a caress. It’s dark and teasing, and it almost hurts how much you want to keep him here, home, safe.

“Shut up,” you mutter, nuzzling to get past his suit jacket, drawing another breath when you get at the fine silk-blend shirt underneath, dappled by the rain. “Y’smell like airplane.”

“And what kind of welcome is that?” Your stomach swoops when both his arms embrace you, fingers digging in just a touch as he starts backing you into the apartment again. It's the way his voice drops and his eyes darken, the way he seems to grow before you, the way his words feel like a touch. It's the flash of a smile and a tilt to his head.  _ He's home.  _ "Here I am… coming home after a long… tedious work trip… and I thought I'd get a nice, warm welcome home."

“I’m warm,” you quip, looking at him and batting your eyelashes, knowing just how this part goes, where it will take you.

“You’re a brat is what you are,” comes the reply as he pushes the door shut behind him, the locks clicking into place. “Tell me again why I let you tease me like this?”

Slinking out of his hold, you do a little twirl, putting one finger to your lips while your other hand tug at the sash of your robe. The silky material falls silently to the floor, leaving you in the expensive lingerie set you bought. You never really cared for it before, happy just to find something that fit, but now… you will happily spend every cent you have at your disposal on the most finely crafted lingerie just for the look in Napoleon's eyes.

"Because you like it."

He's crowding you before you can get out a teasing "sir", capturing you in a searing kiss as his hands reacquaint themselves with your body, fist into silk and lace. He's hungry, eager, and you let him have you, let him kiss down your neck to nuzzle at the soft skin there, let his hands roam, moaning when deft fingers tease just along the lace trimmed edges of your panties.

"Fuck…" he swears under his breath when his fingers finally slip underneath fabric to feel you wet and ready, closing around the flimsy material to tug it down. "You do this just for me, baby? Did you dress up all pretty to distract me? Think you could make me forget just how bratty you can be?"

A bruising kiss right to your pulsepoint has your reply falling apart into stutters before you tilt your head to give him more access, allowing him to continue his path down your body, "It depends," you sigh, pressing your lips together when he teases a thumb over a hardened nipple through your bra.

A kiss to your sternum.

"On what?"

A kiss to your stomach.

"Depends on what, sweetheart?"

His eyes are dark, the blue of them nothing but a thin halo crowning the lust where he kneels before you, fingers hooked into the sides of your underwear. You worry your lower lip between your teeth, dragging your fingers through his styled hair and getting a rumble in return.

"Depends…" you tell him, voice low and heat simmering in the pit of your stomach, "...on whether it's working or not."

There's a lightning quick grin, and then you're bare to him, one leg over his shoulder and you're moaning unabashedly while he sucks your clit and slowly works the flat of his tongue over it at the same time. Pleasure mounts quickly, but you know how this goes, know that this is as much punishment as it is his way to reacquaint himself with you, to leave behind work. You never really talk about his mission. He can't tell you much, and you're not sure you want to know all of it. What you do is let him decompress. Sometimes, Napoleon barely makes it through the door before clothes are flying. Other times, there is a meal, small talk, showers and snuggling that slowly evolves into passion and moans and the tension slowly bleeding out of him.

He takes his time coming home. Your legs barely hold you when he finally relents, leaving you teetering on edge, clinging to him as he rises to his feet, licking his lips with a crooked grin. There’s something deep and resonant in his voice when he coos at you, his light touch electric as he leads you to bed shedding your bra and tugging his shirt from his slacks. The bed is only halfmade, sheets haphazardly spread out in a semblance of effort during your perfunctory round to tidy up the place, and they’re quickly rucked into disorder when he lays you down, pressing to be cradled by your thighs. His presence is intoxicating, the scent of him, even if it’s tainted by far off places and travel, making your head spin as much as his kisses do. He is greedy, and you are eager to give, eager to share, eager to receive and feel him against you. A whimper slips from you when he grinds into you, letting you feel him hard through his slacks and one hand slipping down to work at the belt buckle.  _ It’s been so long, he’s here now, it’ll feel so good, please, please, please… _

But the pleasure doesn't mount. Instead, you are half aware of the belt being pulled off, your wrists being pinned above your head and then the belt is looped around them and secured to the headboard. It pulls you out of the haze of his kisses, finding him on his knees above you, his gaze dark and hungry. He works his shirt off slowly, meticulous in unbuttoning it.

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere," you quip, cocking your head.

His reply comes calm and collected, but the hunger in his gaze makes your skin break out in goosebumps, "I know."

"Is this punishment?"

"Hmm…" He seems to consider his answer, hesitating before shrugging the shirt off, revealing tan skin and a toned chest and stomach dusted with hair. "Call it… insurance."

"Insurance?" It's hard not to look at him, not to follow the trail of hair and the v of his hips down to where his slacks are unbuttoned and revealing the waistband of his boxer briefs.

"Someone said I smelled like airplane," he tells you, quirking an eyebrow, "I can't possibly in good conscience let you experience that. So I'm going to go have a nice, long shower."

"What if I wanted to come with you?" you counter, tugging at the belt. It's more for show than anything and he knows it.

"I think what you want is something completely different, darling."

You pout, your lower lip pushing, the puppy dog eyes on full display, "What if I needed to take a shower anyway?"

He merely laughs, "I could smell your body wash on you. It's my favourite smell. Well, second favourite."

"Then why am I restrained exactly?"

Napoleon crawls over you, leaning in as close as he can without touching you, lips brushing tantalizingly over the shell of your ear, "So you won't have too much fun without me."

You're left gaping as he leaves you there, walking with a spring in his step that oozes smugness. Tugging on the belt again, you curse under your breath, squeezing your legs together for what little relief it gets you. It's pitiful, barely even scratching an itch. If anything, it leaves you even more frazzled, the cool air from outside pebbling your nipples, and you glare at the door to the bathroom, cracked open just enough for you to discern movement inside. The shower is turned on, the rush of water like white noise. He better be quick, he better not keep you waiting, he better-

By the first, deep groan, you know exactly what his plan is, and you clench your fist. The rat  _ bastard.  _ It's not just that you're excluded from the glorious sight of his naked body under the spray of water, bad enough by any standard. It's that you're robbed of the opportunity to enjoy the show he is obviously putting on to rile you up further. He makes sure every noise he makes carries through to you, stoking the fire smoldering low in your belly, fuelling the images in your mind's eye of just how he's soaping himself up, hands moving over smooth muscle and soft skin, maybe jerking himself a few times and-

_ "Mmm…" _

Fuckfuckfuck.

You buck against nothing, squirming for any kind of stimulation and it is not enough and he should be here and why is he such a shit and why do you play into it and why do you  _ like it so damn much. _

It's an eternity before the shower turns off, another stretch of infinity passing while you listen to his small hums as he towels himself off. It's a glorious sight to see him come out of the bathroom, his hair curling just so and making tendrils of water run down his face and chest. His towel is wrapped low on his hips, and the little trail of hair leading down into it is calling you, makes you ache for his body against yours.

"Right where I left you," he comments, sounding pleased, as if he had assumed you could wriggle out of your restraints.

"Right where you left me to suffer," you amend, trying for a glare but judging by his smug little smile, you suspect that if anything, you look desperate.

Napoleon merely hums, cocking his head to regard you, and it is strange how his gaze can feel so much like a touch, like heat and exhilaration. You want to reach for him, touch him in return, run your fingers through his hair. A sound slips from you, high-pitched and needy because it's been weeks without him, you never know how long he'll be home for and he is so close that it feels like a tether is strung taut between you and he's refusing to be pulled in.

"Have I told you how much I like seeing you like this?" he says, walking up alongside the bed, touching one finger up your leg and dragging it up as he moves. "In my bed. All spread out for me, bare, waiting…"

"Tied up," you deadpan, but it's not enough to needle him into action.

"A bonus," he counters, his finger travelling up between your breasts to rest just under your chin, keeping your gaze on him. "And one I'm liking more and more."

There's another sharp remark on your tongue, but inbetween one breath and the next, he is on you, towel loosening around his waist to let you feel every inch of him, warm and wonderful pressure that has you sighing into the hungry kiss he bestows upon you. 

_ Finally _ .

Things move quickly from there. It's as if a spark has been lit between you, and the careful composure Napoleon's been maintaining crumbles quickly. You hook your feet around his waist, pulling him in closer and pushing the towel off and away. His heated skin is like a burn against you, but you still want him closer, kissing him just as hungrily, just as needily until you finally feel one of his hands between you, gripping himself and setting the head of his cock against your entrance. Sweet little pleas spill from your lips, melting into a pitched moan when Napoleon rises back onto his haunches, hands roaming down to grip at your hips, and  _ there _ . There is the stretch, the bite and the pleasure as he pushes into you.

“Baby…” Your back is bowing already, the leather of his belt biting into your wrists because you want him back, want to touch, want to reclaim him as much as he is reclaiming you.

Napoleon only hushes, soothing his hands along your hips, your thigh, grounding you to him, anchoring you to him, to where he is now buried inside you, thick and throbbing. You squeeze around him, biting your lip at the way his fingers dig into your skin, a reproaching hum rumbling from him. Outside, the rain pours down, heavy drops hitting the windows, but the sound is dimming, receding from the bubble you feel suspended in.  _ Come home, _ you want to tell him.  _ Let go. Come home. Take me. Be m- _

Maybe it’s lucky that he chooses that moment to pull out, to start slow, measured thrusts that create a delicious drag over sensitive spots. The thought they interrupt is dangerous territory, and one you should do good to avoid, to ignore and relegate to the back of your mind until it no longer poses an issue. Focus. Here, now, the undulation of hips meeting, muscles tensed and heat building. Nimble fingers teasing at your clit, sweet little words mixed with filth that loosens your tongue to beg for him to let you have it, to let you cum, to give you everything.

There’s a smile like a wicked wolf when you come apart for him.

Once is not enough. It never is. Napoleon always comes home hungry; for you, for food, for normalcy, and he takes everything he gets in excess. It’s easy to accept, to give and receive. He spends himself in the wee hours of the night, your own body feeling wrung out by the pleasure he’s wreaked on you. At some point, the belt was loosened, and when he pulls you in, still buried inside of you, he kisses the tender skin of your wrists, massaging against the lingering indents in your skin.

Napoleon wakes you up with slow kisses, rutting between your thighs, words slurring a little when he slips into you, turned on your side. His nose stays buried in the crook of your neck, curses and sweet little praises muffled as he makes you cum before emptying himself inside you. The rain has subsided overnight and a dim light filters through the clouds, making the world soft and private, your bodies tangled up in sheets.

There's breakfast in bed. Decadent French toast that he makes of the loaf of sourdough you bought only days before, supplemented with juice and fruits. He takes his with a cup of black coffee and dessert in the form of his tongue against your folds until you plead for mercy.

He makes lunch, nothing but boxers under the apron he wears with a little smirk. You sneak up behind him, kissing up between his shoulder blades, dragging your nose over warm skin and supple muscle and he responds by lifting you onto the table, holding your legs open and pushing you to lie down. He has scratch marks along his forearms that he wears proudly.

It goes in for another day. Sex that leaves you moaning his name, the sound of his heartbeat in your ear, meals shared in bd, at the table, wherever you landed before he got up to cook. It's his own kind of homecoming, leaving behind the mission he was dispatched on, little by little making the apartment home again, making you part of his life again, holding you longer and longer and humming in his sleep. It's sweet, and on the rare occasions when you're awake before him, you trace the relaxed features of his face, committing his features to memory.

"This is my favourite smell," he murmurs.

It's the third day after he's come home. Rain hangs heavy again over the city, making a chill slip in through the windows. You're curled up against him, sated from an early morning tryst, but craving his warmth when the sheets start to cool. You peer up at him at the lips you kissed so fervently to keep from moaning too loud.

"What is?"

Napoleon buries his nose in your hair, nuzzling and drawing in a breath, "This. You. Right here. Gorgeous and sweet and smelling of sex."

You smack him on one of his pecs, hiding your face in the crook of his arm as you make an exaggerated groan. He thinks it's because you find his statement cheesy, embarrassing, and his entire being vibrates with his chuckle. You hide because you can't look at him, can't carry this confession and hold it next to the distant end that looms far off.

"C'mon, sweetheart, it wasn't that bad," he coaxes, hand searching for your chin so he can make you look up at him.

"You're insufferable, Napoleon." Your voice is muffled, resisting his efforts even as they tickle your sensitive skin. "A menace. A terror. A scoundrel."

Finally, his finger hitches under your chin, plying you upwards so you meet his eyes, melt at the crooked smile. Napoleon presses a kiss to your forehead, tucks you back against his warmth.

"It's why you like me, sweetheart."


End file.
